


Stay Dark Against The Night

by honey_wheeler, thefairfleming



Series: Lay It All Down [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sansa's brother is killed in the Vietnam War, she finds herself getting closer to his best friend, Jon Snow, and the anti-war group Jon hangs out with. Smut Ensues, and, as per usual, we play fast and loose with Historical Accuracy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Times, They Are A' Changin'

“Are you okay?”

The words are soft, spoken in a whisper against her lips, and it takes Sansa the space of several heartbeats- not that that’s all that long given how her heart is racing- to figure out how to answer.

They’re in the back of the camper van, on the little elevated cushioned space where Jon sleeps, and just a few weeks ago, Sansa would’ve shuddered at even setting foot in something like this. But now, with the curtains drawn, candles on the table just beyond them softening everything in a rosy glow, it doesn’t feel seedy. It’s actually…romantic.

“I don’t know?” she confesses, her own whisper husky, and Jon pulls back, his brow furrowing. His jacket and t-shirt were discarded somewhere around the time her sheath dress ended up unzipped and pushed to her waist, and Sansa fights the urge to reach out and skim her fingers over his collarbone. She’s never been even a little bit undressed with a boy before, and it’s a heady feeling, hot and strange, making her think of when he’d taught her how to smoke a joint. That had been their first kiss, and now here she is, just a few days later, letting him take her dress off in the back of a camper.

“We can stop,” he tells her now, his warm palm chafing up and down her bare arm, and Sansa surprises herself by shaking her head immediately, her own hand coming up to cuff the back of his neck to pull him back in.

“I don’t want to,” she says, kissing him quickly, urgently. “I want this.”

What _this_ is, she isn’t exactly sure, but she knows that kissing Jon like this, feeling his hands on her bare back, is nothing like those chaste kisses she’s shared in the front seats of cars or just outside her front door. Some of those kisses were nice; she’d always liked the way Willas cupped her cheek when he kissed her. Some weren’t, and those she tries not to remember at all. But none of those had made her feel like her skin was too tight. None of them had made her even think of doing what she’s doing now, her tongue moving along Jon’s as she guides his hand from her waist to cup her breast, a whimper escaping her lips when his thumb rolls over her nipple through her bra.

Jon breaks the kiss again, sucking in a breath. “San,” he murmurs, his eyes on his own hand, her palm covering the back of it, urging him to keep touching her. Sansa drops her head, too, wanting to watch, and when his thumb moves again, sending another bolt of feeling that has her squeezing her legs tighter together, they both groan.

“I like that,” she tells him, and Jon looks up at her from beneath his surprisingly long lashes.

“Good,” he replies, his voice rough. “What else do you like?”  
  


Again, Sansa struggles for an answer. She thinks she might like it _all,_ but is that something she can say?

“I…I think I’d like it if you kissed me there?” she says, her face so hot it’s a wonder she doesn’t burst into flames, but in this dim, cozy space, it seems okay to say something like that.

And it must be more than okay, because Jon drops his head, taking a deep breath. And then she feels the softest brush of his tongue there, where his thumb just was. Even though the heavy material of her bra, she can feel how how and damp his mouth is, and her own breath seems to catch in her throat. And when his lips close around her nipple, sucking gently, she gives a soft cry, her hands flying to the back of his head.

“I wanna kiss you everywhere,” he tells her when he lifts his head, and Sansa nearly pants as she helps him tug the cup of her bra down so that he can rub the pad of his thumb over the tip of her breast with nothing between their skin. “Your sweet mouth, your neck, your tits. Between your legs.”

The image is so powerful, so intimate, that Sansa squeezes her eyes tightly closed when he licks her nipple again, imagining that same touch at the apex of her thighs, in that place where she seems to feel her heart beating as he sucks at her.

“Yes,” she manages to breathe. “Oh god, Jon, _please_.”

He sucks at her for what feels like ages, moving from one breast to the other, their hands tangling in their haste to shove the other side of her bra out of the way. Sansa lets herself sag back on the mattress, opening her legs so that Jon can lie between them. He’s heavier than she’d thought he’d be- Jon is strong, but slight- and she wants to lift her hips against his chest, to writhe and squirm underneath him until there’s some kind of relief. One of his hands curls around her thigh, and for one breathless moment, she thinks he might slide down her body and kiss her there, where he said he wanted to.

But instead, he lifts his head again, resting his forehead against her collarbone and breathing hard.

“We need to stop,” he says, but his knuckles keep tracing the curve of her breast, and he nuzzles her jaw, making her tip her head back. She’d worn her hair loose tonight, not bothering with all the elaborate teasing and curling she usually did, and it feels good draped over her shoulders. Everything feels good right now, though.

“Why?”

Jon’s chuckle against her throat makes Sansa shiver, her hands coming up to clutch his shoulders.

“Because,” he says, and then he looks at her, his dark eyes serious in spite of the soft smile still playing around his lips. “Two weeks ago, you were making lemon pie at a church picnic in the prettiest pink dress I’d ever seen. And now you’re smoking dope, and going to rallies, and-,”

There’s a sudden cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, chasing away some of the heat that had been pooling there just a moment before. “And what?” she asks, pushing him so that she can sit up. It occurs to her then how silly she must look, her pale green dress splashed with daisies pushed down and up so that it’s more or less a ring of fabric around her waist, her the cups of her bra askew, and she starts to tug them it back into place. “About to fuck you in the back of a camper?” she says, her face flaming at using that vulgarity, but what other term is there to use? Isn’t that what they would’ve been doing? “I guess those things are fine for all the other women you know, but not Robb’s sister, right? Not Sansa Stark, Homecoming Princess?”

The words spill out, faster and louder than she’d meant, but she’s hurt and embarrassed and suddenly wants nothing more than to go home to her flowered sheets and canopy bed, the world she’d started to think she might be outgrowing. She’s used to guys thinking she should be a certain way, to everyone expecting her to be something she’s not, but _Jon…_  
  


She pulls at her dress, sliding her arm through one sleeve, and Jon’s hand catches her elbow as gets up on his knees. He still wears one of Robb’s dog tags, and it slides over the muscles of his chest as he moves, making her feel guilty all over again. She shouldn’t be here. Jon was like a brother to Robb, so what does that make him to her?

“That’s not what I was saying,” he tells her, dark hair falling over his forehead, and Sansa swallows hard as she looks up at him. “I’m just…I don’t want…,” He blows out a breath, letting her go as he sinks back to his heels, one hand scratching the back of his head. The hair under his arm is dark, and looks surprisingly soft, and Sansa wonders if it makes her a pervert to want to reach out and stroke her fingers over it. She wants to touch every part of him, she realizes, and suddenly she wishes they could just go back to a few minutes ago when everything was kissing and touching and good.

“I’m so shit at this, Sansa,” he says at last, dropping his hand, and Sansa meets his eyes.

“You seemed pretty good at it to me,” she confesses. One corner of his mouth kicks up in something close to a smile.

“Not that,” he says, and Sansa could swear he’s blushing. “I mean telling you what I feel. I just…you’re trying new things, and figuring stuff out, and I fucking love that, and I don’t…It would kill me if you regretted any of it, or if we did something you’re not ready for.”

It’s not the most eloquent of speeches, but it makes something in Sansa’s chest swell, and her grip on her dress loosens just a little bit. “I couldn’t regret you,” she replies, and she sees Jon’s fingers flex on his denim-clad thighs.

“I want you.” The words are simple and blunt, and Sansa’s mouth feels dry at hearing them. “I want you so fucking much it’s driving me crazy,” Jon goes on. “I wanted you the second you walked out of that church in your pearls and didn’t flinch when Pyp’s hand got your glove dirty. And I can’t let what I want fuck this up for you. I won’t.”

She’s let go of her dress now, watching him.

“What is it you want?” she asks, and Jon sighs.

“Every time I’m with you, I want to…,” He shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his beard before laughing, the sound gruff. “Christ, I can’t even tell you all I want to do with you, Sansa.”

 _With._ Not _to_. It’s a telling difference, and it has Sansa rising up on her knees, inching closer to him on the mattress. Her dress is now hanging half on, half off, one arm through the armhole as the other side of the dress sags to her waist. It probably makes her look even sillier than it had when the whole thing was down, but she doesn’t care. She meets Jon in the middle of the bed, her hands bracing his face as she kisses him, softer this time.

“Then let me decide when we stop.”


	2. Light My Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 60s version of Netflix and Chill.

This is crazy. Crazy and completely unlike her. Sansa has always been a good girl: perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect everything. Dependable, reliable, predictable, the sort of girl other girls’ parents would say “Why can’t you be more like that Sansa Stark?” about.

They wouldn’t be saying that if they could see her now, sprawled across an older boy’s lap – a counter-culture protestor, no less – with his tongue in her mouth and his hand pushed up inside her top, the movie on the television just as ignored as the brothers and sister Sansa is supposed to be babysitting while her parents take a rare night out.

They’re asleep now, or at least in their bedrooms. Sansa may be acting recklessly with _herself,_ but she wouldn’t act recklessly with them. Rickon got put down hours ago and Bran is up in his room, probably reading one of his equally confusing and boring books on transcendentalism. Arya had wanted to watch the movie with them, obliviously (or maybe not obliviously, and just aggravatingly) plopping herself down on the loveseat and providing running commentary. Sansa had to bribe her with two week’s worth of dish duty to get her to leave so she could be alone with Jon, and she hasn’t heard a peep out of her since, though for all Sansa knows, Arya went upstairs only to climb out her window and shinny down the drainpipe so she could go off with that pack of boys she always runs with, Gendry and Ned Dayne and some unfortunate boy everyone calls Hot Pie. Whatever she’s doing, Sansa doesn’t care. Arya could be holding up a liquor store with a water pistol right now and it wouldn’t matter to Sansa, as long as she’s not here, since Jon would be doing a lot less of what he’s doing if Arya were here, and what he’s doing is incredible.

“I probably should have worn a more manageable top,” she says when Jon pulls his mouth away from hers to focus on getting both her turtleneck and her bra out of the way at the same time. She hadn’t really been thinking about anything like _this_ when she dithered over what to wear before he came over. The turtleneck seemed cozy and made her look a little less…well, Junior League, she’d thought, so she’d paired it with a corduroy skirt – the most mod thing she owned – and figured it was fine. This stuff, this making out with touching, is farther than her imagination had stretched, even though she’d been intensely aware that her parents were several towns over seeing some Rodgers and Hammerstein musical and wouldn’t be home until well after midnight.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jon says, taking in her white turtleneck pushed up over her breasts and the cups of her bra pushed down underneath them, her nipples an almost shocking pink against her pale skin, flushed and sensitive from his hands. His eyes rake over her so thoroughly that she could almost swear she feels it like an actual touch on her bare skin. Jon looks back up at her, his mouth kicking into that half-upside down smile of his. “I kind of think the aesthetics outweigh any inconvenience.”

It’s a heady thing, to have him looking at her like that, touching her like this, on the same sofa her mother sits on every Christmas morning to open her presents, in the same room where Sansa’s recited a dozen poems or played her harp for company. As if guided by her thoughts, Jon’s fingers pluck at her nipple like he’s the one playing harp and Sansa gasps. As amazing as their make-out sessions in the back of his van have been, there’s an extra thrill to doing all of this in her parents’ living room. Good Girl Sansa would never have done such a thing. Well, Good Girl Sansa died along with Robb, and the girl Sansa is now not only does such a thing, she wants to do more.

“Jon,” she pants, looking up at him bent over her. “You could…you know. If you wanted.” He looks down at her in confusion, his face all sideways in her field of vision.

“I could what?”

“You _know_ ,” Sansa says again, bucking her hips up a little and parting her knees for emphasis, until there’s enough room between them for the Holy Ghost, just like Sister Mordane says at school dances. Jon covers his laugh with a cough, but she knows it’s not at her suggestion, because his thighs tense underneath her back and his hand immediately slides down over the cups of bra – the prettiest one she has, which isn’t saying much – and then down her belly and over the wales of her corduroy skirt until his fingertips hit the hem.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Very,” she answers. Jon dips his head and kisses her, his tongue stealing between her lips to stroke over hers as he gently works the corduroy up to her hips and settles his hand over the white cotton of her underwear. She moans loudly the instant she feels the pressure of his hand; she can’t help it. She’s glad the boys’ bedrooms are on the opposite side of the house.

“You like that?” Jon asks against her lips.

“Does it make me loose if I say yes?” His laugh is a puff of air on her tongue. It tastes like the glass of pop he was drinking before he set it aside and pulled her across his lap so they could neck.

“No,” he says. “It makes you wonderful.”

His touch is soft, but firm. For a long time he only touches the insides of her thighs, the crease between her legs and her belly, sweeping over everything in between without lingering any of the places she would have expected him to focus on. All over, around and around he touches her, until her stomach is quivering and she feels like she’s waiting for something important that she somehow never knew existed. When his fingers slip into the waistband of her underwear and pause there, questioning, she lets out a huge sigh of relief.

“Do you want me to-” he starts, but before he can even finish, Sansa is nodding, opening her legs wider and urging his hand lower with her own hand on his wrist. The feel of his fingers on bare flesh is unbelievable.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he says fervently. Sansa thrills at the profanity, the first time he’s ever said such a thing around her. It’s her that made him slip up, she’s what made him curse. In a good way. “I’ve wanted to touch you like that for a long time.”

“You have?”

“Since that time first semester that I came home from school with Robb for winter break.” Stunned, Sansa blinks up at him, somehow forgetting for the moment that his hand is in her underwear in light of such a discovery.

“But that was three years ago…” she says, her voice trailing off feebly.

“And you weren’t even fifteen yet,” he groans. “I felt like such a dirty pervert.” Sansa laughs at that, stretching up to bump his nose with hers.

“You were eighteen, silly, not eighty.”

“It still wasn’t right. Especially since I was constantly distracted by how much I wanted to do something like this.” He slides his fingers down in a deft vee, squeezing and rubbing a spot between his knuckles that practically makes Sansa’s eyes cross, it feels so good.

“Jon-” she tries, not wanting to let go so easily of this new information, the thrilling feeling of knowing he’s wanted her for years, but he moves his fingers again and she forgets what she was going to say, forgets her name, forgets how to do anything except feel.

It’s not the quick sort of fumble Margaery had described once as Sansa kept her company while she snuck a cigarette under the bleachers. She’d described boys as going straight for it every time and plunging their fingers inside like they were dipping a pen in an inkwell. Sansa’s so worked up right now from the kissing and the touching, the naughty thrill of doing it all on her parents’ sofa, that she thinks it would have felt good anyway, but what Jon does is better. So much better. He strokes and circles and slides, exploring, experimenting, learning her by hand. Parts of her body that had always seemed vaguely embarrassing now seem magical when he touches them, his fingers lingering everywhere and never rushing. The movie ends and the late night movie starts up before he finally moves his fingers to the spot he’s been circling, the one that feels so good when Sansa presses something against it: books, a pillow, even once, embarrassingly, an old stuffed animal. It feels even better when it’s Jon touching it, and Sansa feels an ache that’s only satisfied when she stretches her mouth up to his for more kissing. She’s whimpering, mewling, even whining his name in a way she knows will embarrass her later, but right now she just needs _more_ , needs _him_ , needs him to touch her like this forever.

It comes on her all in a rush, her whole body drawing itself up tight and then letting go in the most incredible way imaginable. Sansa shakes and jerks into Jon’s hand, her toes curled hard against the arm of the sofa. He kisses her through it, lightly, teasing, just barely dipping his tongue to taste hers, retreating and nipping her bottom lip, and laughing warmly against her needy, seeking mouth. When it’s over, Sansa feels like she just melts.

“Margaery is right,” she says, dazed, floating in a pleasurable haze.”Dating older boys is amazing.” Jon laughs in answer.

“Dating?” he asks. “Where I’m from, we call this-” he pauses to move his fingers where they’re still tucked into her underwear, sending a fresh shockwave of painfully good sensation through her, “something else.”

“Oh!” Sansa sits bolt upright, twisting to face him. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean-” She could kick herself. Jeyne’s voice rings in her head, confidently telling her that boys don’t like pressure, that you have to let them think everything is their idea. _Don’t be desperate like our mothers were_ , Jeyne had said, _we have to be modern and carefree_ , and here Sansa is, blowing it already.

“Didn’t mean what? That I’m amazing?” Jon drops a kiss on the tip of her nose, a gesture of affection that would have thrilled her at any time she wasn’t busy cringing at herself. “Because I’m not letting you take that one back.”

“No! I mean…I mean the dating. I know we’re not…”

“We’re not?” Jon asks. The question is mild enough that Sansa can’t tell what emotion is behind it.

“I don’t know, you just never seemed like a…like a dating kind of guy.” Like a dating me kind of guy, a voice in her head whispers, but Sansa keeps that thought to herself. Jon looks at her a long while, long enough that she starts to fidget, suddenly noticing the dampness between her legs drying into sticky discomfort.

“I don’t know that I ever used to be,” he says finally. It’s the sort of statement that could drive Sansa crazy trying to interpret it, but then he grins and takes her face in both hands, dropping brief kisses on her nose, her forehead, her chin and cheeks and eyelids. “You wanna try all this again in the back of a movie theater next week? There’s a new Doris Day film we can ignore.”

Something warm and sweet spreads through Sansa’s chest, filtering out to her fingers and toes and making her tingle all over. It takes her a moment to recognize it as happiness, the sort of achingly simple feeling of rightness and hope that she hasn’t felt since Robb died, of unfettered faith in the goodness of the world and all it might hold in store for her.

“Yes,” she tells Jon. “But bring a big coat.” At his quizzical expression, Sansa gestures to her lap, feeling herself flush bright pink as she does, even though she’d just had Jon’s hand in her underwear. “You know, to put over…”

Jon laughs and pulls her against his side, cuddling her close and kissing the top of her head. “Good girl,” he says.

Sansa presses tight against him, folding her legs under her and tucking her face against his neck, the warm glow intensifying at his words. It’s something Sansa’s heard her entire life, good girl. She must have heard it a thousand times from almost as many people. But somehow, tonight, it means more than any of those other times put together.


End file.
